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wolfqueen-is-here · 5 years

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Kisses Remembered, Kisses Forgotten (Jonsa Secret Santa 2018)

Dearest @moonchildslife, I am so sorry for my delay, Christmas was crazier than I expected, and I didn’t finish my gift on time. But it is here now, and I hope you don’t find it too terrible ;). I wish you a wonderful year with Jonsa becoming canon in April and our fandom wishes coming true. Be happy, be healthy, be yourself! <3

Many thanks to @jonsasecretsanta2018 who made all of this happen, you truly are amazing!

A/N Don’t be alarmed by a brief mention of the Hound. I promise you, it has nothing to do with SanSan in any way except mentioning The Un-Kiss. Book!canon, but mostly show!canon, can be interpreted both as a filler and an AU. 2300 words

Kisses Remembered, Kisses Forgotten

Every now and then Sansa remembers, even though she has tried so hard to leave the past behind. The Hound was rough and scary, but the kiss that he took left a lingering taste on her lips—it was as soft as snow, almost familiar, she’s caught herself missing the shy affection that came with the kiss, a wary touch so vulnerable it felt almost childish. She remembers the kiss that he took. The only thing she doesn’t remember is him taking it.

Every night feels longer and darker than the former ones. It isn’t until she jumps from Winterfell walls that she remembers how to feel warm again, but the road north is as cold as ice and covered in snow. “His lips felt warm”, she thinks as she runs towards her freedom. “The kiss that he took, it felt warm.”

There are times when she is almost certain that she gave it willingly.

—

“You look cold,” Jon says after staring at her in silence for a good half an hour. It would annoy her beyond reason, were it anyone else, anyone less trustworthy, anyone less… Jon, but coming from him it’s almost flattering. No one has ever cared for her so since she’d lost Father. Not once until this very moment has she felt safe since then.

“I’m okay,” she smiles. His unblinking eyes refuse to leave hers even for a second as if she’d vanish otherwise. Sansa leans towards him and strokes the inside of his palm with her thumb. It’s the most innocent of caresses, but it makes Jon stiffen and finally lower his head. She misses the stare instantly. “I’m okay, Jon.”

She tastes his name on her tongue. It feels rough—when was the last time she used it? —but sweeter than all the cake she’s ever had. She wants to swallow it, possess it, make it hers. “Jon,” she muses. “Jon. My Jon.”

If it’s something more primal than sisterly affection, she doesn’t recognise it in time. It may occur to her later, but it will be too late.

—

The first night that she spends at Castle Black is a sleepless one. The shadows are long when she paces aimlessly around the room, too exhausted to fall asleep, too cold to lie still. Knocking at the door alerts her at first—she’s not used to feeling safe yet—she whispers: “Who’s there?” so quietly as if she were hoping nobody would answer.

“It’s me,” Jon says.

She lets him in.

“Do you have everything that you need?” he asks, looking at her with a strange longing.

Had it been more fitting, she’d say: “I have you,” but in their current situation she’d stumble over the words for certain. Instead, she just invites him to stay—just sit next to her and not talk until the sun rises and the shadows go back under her bed. They repeat it every night after that, it seems to comfort both of them.

—

Jon’s eyes follow Sansa as he tries to find something—anything—that would remind him of a little girl she used to be. Her skirts dance when she rocks her hips, walking around Castle Black like she’d lived here all her life. He wants to avert his gaze but finds it impossible. She’s grown so tall, so slender—so beautiful.

“She’s your sister,” he thinks angrily, hiding his face in his hands. “You are not allowed to look at her like that.”

There were times, many lives ago, when they were only children. Sansa’s hair was more orange than auburn, Jon’s face—smooth, not a trace of beard or scars on it. They both called lord Eddard Stark their father. They both walked around holding Robb’s hand. They both watched Bran fall asleep while they were singing lullabies. Both, yes, but not—together.

When he tries to think about their lives before everything happened, before he went north and she went south, he keeps coming back to that one particular memory. And he’s not allowed to remember it. Not ever.

“She’s your sister,” he thinks, but as her lips move while she’s telling him another story, he watches. The redness of them almost provocative, they look like she’s been biting them for the past few hours. It’s a mesmerising set of colours: her lips with a raspberry tint, screaming to be tasted, licked, devoured; her eyes, deep blue almost exactly like the ones that used to follow him with disdain when he was nothing more than a bastard boy, but there’s no disdain in Sansa’s eyes, only hope. Her fair complexion contrasts with the dark streaks of her auburn hair, almost brown in the dimly lit room. Jon quashes the need to cup Sansa’s cheek and stroke it with his fingers, to check if her soft, unwavering beauty isn’t only a product of his hallucinations. He wouldn’t dare.

—

Sansa enters the dining room when there’s barely anyone left. A few wildlings share a horn of ale, laughing. There’s also Edd sitting in the furthest, darkest corner, and he looks really down—Edd always looks down, that’s an inherent part of his personality, “The defining part”, Tormund insists, but Sansa doesn’t care, because Edd, albeit rather shy, is kind and caring, and that’s more than she could expect from a stranger. The wildlings terrify her still, she doesn’t know their customs, they’re far too loud and bold for her taste, so she chooses to cross the room and take a sit in front of Edd.

They don’t talk, there’s no need for it. Sansa eats her soup, wondering whether Jon has already eaten, and Edd just keeps staring at the ceiling. Weirdly, his silent presence comforts Sansa more than any words could.

When everybody leaves, Sansa reaches for Edd’s half-empty horn and moves her hand up and down its uneven surface. It’s become apparent these past few days that sleep refuses to come easily for her at Castle Black, and when she finally drifts off after hours of rolling over from side to side, her dreams are filled with memories—but are they real? Are they hers?

She doesn’t think about the Hound that often. He’s been a big part of her life when she was a prisoner in King’s Landing, but her fascination with his tragic story faded and went by long ago. She cannot remember his face anymore, only the scars, she doesn’t even know if she’d be glad to see him again. The memories of him and the torments from the Lannisters became too inseparable in her mind, and that’s why she doesn’t want to think of him or imagine their meeting.

Not now. Not ever.

Then why is her brain so set on bringing back the memory of the kiss? She can feel a sweet breath on her chin every morning when she wakes up from her blurry dreams—why is it sweet? Wasn’t the Hound monumentally drunk that night?—she can taste it, again and again. Her first kiss, that one thing she knows for sure. She’d gotten a few pecks from Joffrey, yes, they should probably count as first, but somehow it doesn’t feel right.

She closes her eyes and clasps her hands around the horn.

“I thought you weren’t fond of our ale,” Jon says, suddenly very close—how did he get so close without Sansa hearing his steps? Did she black out again?

“I heard it helps to forget.”

“It does,” his voice sounds worried, “for a while. It doesn’t make your past go away.”

Sansa raises her head and their eyes lock immediately as if they’re a couple of lovers always on a mission to find each other.

“For a while,” she repeats. “Sounds better than never.”

The ale tastes much worse than she remembered it—it’s bitter and stale, and reeks of old, damp barrels—but her lips don’t leave the edge of the horn until it’s empty. Jon’s eyes move to her throat as she swallows and stay there even after she’s finished.

At first, she doesn’t think anything’s changed—the same emptiness fills her, the same desperation—but minutes pass as they sit opposite one another in silence, and her head finally starts to feel both lighter and heavier, her thoughts stir inside her brain, but never fully form. It’s a bliss. It’s a curse.

She sits in the middle of a meadow, it’s late summer. The winds got chilly but she’s got a blanket around her arms. She’s knitted it herself. She’s content. She’s happy. She’s Queen Naerys Targaryen.

“Are you alright? That’s quite a lot of ale you just inhaled,” Jon murmurs, gently touching her arm. Sansa looks up and smiles at him.

“I’ll be fine,” she answers. “I’ll be fine, Jon. You can go to sleep, you look tired.”

He laughs hoarsely and it makes Sansa’s belly tighten.

“Not until I see you safely tucked under your furs.”

He approaches her with his back straight and a sword at his side. Where did he get that sword, she thinks briefly but continues to look at his beaming face.

“I’ve come to rescue you, my Queen.”

“You can’t, my love,” she says, remembering to dress her face in the deepest, most regal shade of sadness. “We’re bound to our fate forever. You’ve made your vows, as I have made mine.”

He kneels before her. He’s brave, he’s gentle, he’s strong. He’s Prince Aemon the Dragonknight.

Sansa tries to stand up all too quickly, her head spins violently and she has to hold on to the table to avoid falling. She can barely feel her legs and her arms—how strong was that ale?—but the burning hotness of Jon’s hand on her lower back, oh, that she feels.

“Careful,” he says, pulling her closer and throwing her arm around his neck. “You’re still much too weak to start drinking so heavily. Don’t let go, alright? I’m going to walk you to your chambers now.”

And he proceeds to do just that.

When Sansa lies in bed feeling truly sleepy for the first time since she’s reached Castle Black on her dying horse, she suddenly remembers everything.

His face is just inches away. He’s wearing his hair pulled tightly in the back like a true adult, but he’s been playing with swords all day and a few strands have escaped the knot, hanging loosely around his face. She feels the urge to curl one of them around her finger but before she decides to make a move, he leans in and kisses her on the lips.

It surprises her—the lightness of it as much as the act itself. “It’s not wrong as long as I’m Queen Naerys and he’s Prince Aemon,” she tells herself as she involuntarily moves closer and exhales into his warm mouth. His fingers wander up and down her sleeve, curious but never inappropriate. The kiss doesn’t last long, a few heartbeats maybe, but before it’s finished, she can hear him whisper: “Sansa.”

And instantly he’s Jon again, and she’s Sansa. And they’ve done something unforgivable.

—

Jon’s almost asleep when he hears banging at his door. He jumps out of bed and rushes to open it only to find a breathless Sansa on the other side. Her eyes are wide, and she looks absolutely terrified. If she’s still a bit in her cups, it doesn’t show.

“What happened?” he asks.

She’s shivering. He wants to put his hand on her arm but she jumps away.

“You kissed me,” she hisses, her tone accusatory.

Jon blinks. Not that he hasn’t thought of it, because of course he has. He won’t admit it to anyone but though he tried extremely hard to see his long-lost sister in the beauty that has brought him back to life, he failed miserably. The truth is—she was never a sister to him, not even before they parted ways.

“I assure you,” he answers quietly, “I did not. I didn’t even enter your chambers, I asked lady Brienne to help.”

“Not tonight,” Sansa sighs and Jon realises she’s standing before him barefoot, dressed only in some old sleeping gown, but somehow she’s never looked more queenly with her demanding expression and fiery glare. “When we were children. A few months before we left Winterfell. We played… we played, and you…”

And he kissed her.

He kissed her and he never regretted it once until she came to him, crying, and ordered him to forget it ever happened. He didn’t want to, it was too precious a memory, but he obliged. For Sansa.

“I thought we weren’t speaking of it,” he whispers carefully.

She was really shook when she came to him that day, he never wanted to see Sansa cry, and to be the reason for her despair—it was too much for him to bear.

“We aren’t. I just… I forgot.”

“You forgot?” he asks, feeling hurt. It was his only kiss before Ygritte and he wasn’t even allowed to savour that memory. How could she have forgotten?

“I’m sorry,” she says. “What we did… it was wrong. I didn’t… I couldn’t… I think I repressed it. I made myself believe it happened with someone else.” She lowers her head and he’s afraid to spook her by asking who that person was, but he’s certain it will haunt him forever. Was it Joffrey? Gods, he hopes it wasn’t him. Jon couldn’t bear it. Sansa makes a strangled noise at the back of her throat. “But I remember now.”

He doesn’t know what more to say, but Sansa doesn’t seem to expect any kind of explanation. It happened. It shouldn’t have, but it did. And it changed things between them.

Sansa finally dares to look at him. Her lips are parted, ready as they were in that meadow years ago. He doesn’t take advantage of her vulnerability. When they win back Winterfell, when the war is over—she will come to him of her own volition.

And he will have that second kiss, gods be damned.

#jonsa secret santa #jonsa fanfiction #jonsasecretsanta2018 #jonsa #jon x sansa #got #a gift for moonchildslife #secret santa #gift

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ggiame · 7 years

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all the stuff under the cut

Everything is wrong at the moment, its 70 degrees in february, DT is president, and everything just seems transitional and out of place and temporary. I have 6 jobs right now. im working all the time and yet theres no money. i dont know. just having one of those weird surreal chunks of weeks that im trying to capture with a long text post on a public forum. here we go.

(heads up, me and my therapist named and externalized my anxiety into a character I call ‘chanel’ after the terrible ex and I quote her for clarities sake when ‘quoting’ my anxiety. so yeah. thats who chanel is)

money:

none, somehow.

work:

float sixty, leghorn chicken, aloft reception, pole teaching, online tutor, property manager, and also segway is coming back and also maybe still street performing? dude.

okay highlights version

F60: my boss is Lia, a White Lady who used to work in the beauty industry and is On. a. Diet. She is neurotic and perfectionistic but also a weird hippie which is an odd combination of traits i happen to understand well so we get along nicely. She likes me and I like her. All of my co workers seem cool. Also There is a Cute Boy there who i know next to nothing about.

LH: wow okay its food service but i really like my co workers and also the food is decent but not addicting and i do make some tips. Im making friends there the fastest but its also the job im least attached to. conflicting feelings.

Prop Man: oh my god. rats. broken washing machines. broken stoves. intrigue. sabotage. tune in sundays at 8/7c

My family was joking yesterday that i have the “Karlin Family Work Ethic” and that i was doing too much but somehow i still feel like a lazy, useless, slug who should really just work a little harder. Weird.

The injury-----

The elbow is healing relatively fast. it still feels like a year and a day since i last climbed a rope. its probably two weeks out from being -mostly- functional. right now its int htat good enough for life but not for circus zone. Also now im kinda scared of going back up a rope. which is. not. good. but ill deal with when i get there. fear is the worst. ugh.

FeElings-------------

Okay theres a lot of relationship feelings stirring around in my life despite the fact that i have no significant other and here’s why.

boys:

east coast boy- just as bad at keeping in itstouch as I am. is still wonderful. but its been so long theres really only echoes left.

west coast boy: all that weird buildup for an extremely short lived fling that did next to nothing to release all that pent up wierdness. it continues. This boy is much better at keeping in contact. its getting harder for me to keep talking to him as it gets clearer that neither of us is going anywhere soon.

work boy: cute, seems cool, but i have no idea who he is at all.

tinder boy: i like him a lot, but im not attracted to him yet and i dont want to do that to another person. also can i make myself be attracted to someone? thats playing with too many things. no answers yet. needs more pondering.

Other work boy: Chanel “he did not come to the diner with you on valentines day. has not liked any of your social media posts. probably hates you and also thinks youre ugly. its okay you probably wont see him for another two months.”

Girls and others:

Theres a couple straight girls im into and we all know how that goes. They have boyfriends. it sucks.

the circus one:i havent seen this person in a frustratingly long time. dammit.

also im still afraid of flirting with girls because of Amber Chanel B. the Ex from Hell. which is super awesome.

not.

The Room Mate:

1) is mysterious and doesnt say much

2) is clearly in a bad mood a lot. cause shes working sleeping or working out and never gets a second to herself.

3) which totally means that shes mad AT ME ALL THE TIME

4) and she has taken this super central place in my anxiety tornado which I am now worried that she is aware of and annoyed by. which is also part of the tornado. yeah.

The pot:

wow i started to get into serious problem territory this past month and i felt it building up to the moment. which happened a few days ago. i came to this conclusion

- I have the capabilities of controling and being responsible with my drug usage but my situation right now is making that difficult. The next time i end up on solid emotional ground ill stop until the cravings go away.-

and here i am. the good weather is helping a lot and i finally felt ready to cut myself off for a while, so i smoked it all and now im out and well see how this goes.

Bonus---Musings on hunger and stuff-----

So body talk.

Ive been injured and unable to exercise the way i like

ive taken a job in a fried chicken place.

so yeah i have some weight gain and acne and loss of muscle tone and its making my body image issues flare up. So ive been doing okay and I havent made myself vomit but I have been eating noticeably less and ive started to just kinda let myself be hungry more which is something i had forgotten about.

and then i was thinking about it and I realize that im part of this weird subgroup of extremely priveleged people who also know what its like not to eat for 3 days at a time, or what its like to eat less than a thousand calories a day for more that a month, and that I got complimented for what that did to me. I would sleep through classes and almost pass out when i stood up all the time but i weighted 105 pounds and everyone said i looked great. its a weird thing especially cause it was never really about how I looked, and was entirely about trying to control myself when i have needs that are at odds with my situation.

Then i thought about last year when i was training so much that my body could not get enough food, but my anxiety and depression were at such a place that I could barely eat, and the way that kind of hunger was different. I had never vomited from hunger before but I got to find out what that was like. That was where the weed problem really started btw cause if I hadnt had pot last year I would not have eaten at all and would probably be dead. Having anxiety so bad that your stomach clenching makes you nauseous and then you get nauseous with hunger on top of that and then you have to fly to ankansas to be at your fav cousins wedding and manage to pull it off and not be a zombie. whew.

Also I would like to thank lin manuel miranda because (along with pot) Hamilton is what got me through that experience.

yeah.

thats all for now.

#TMI #body stuff #life stuff #boy stuff #girl stuff #all the stuff #journal

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